Kukeri
by Avery1
Summary: On a mission to the remote mountains of Bulgaria, Illya and Napoleon find far more than they bargained for. Written for LJ Scrapbook Halloween Challenge 2014.


Kukeri

The ox cart rattled along the rutted, snow-crusted road, its wooden wheels throwing up pellets of ice and clots of mud as the beast plodded along. Napoleon huddled in the back of the cart, studying a Bulgarian language primer and doing his best to shield himself from the flying muck. Beside him, the cage of chickens they'd purchased at the market in Sofia clucked noisily. Napoleon's clothing was soaking wet, splattered with dirt and grime and feathers. He was as cold and miserable as he'd ever been. "How much further?"

"Gorna Vasilitska should be just over the next ridge," Illya replied, glancing up at the ominous gray sky.

"That's what you said forty minutes ago. And an hour before that."

"Find me a road sign, and I will endeavor to be more precise." He chucked the reins, urging the weary beast forward.

"At the rate we're moving, THRUSH will be long gone by the time we get there."

"If we go any faster, we are apt to break a wheel. You see the condition of the road we are on."

"See it? My bones have intimate knowledge of it. Couldn't we have rented a car back in Sofia?"

"It would do us little good. These mountain passes are treacherous. No automobile could survive the journey. "

"Okay, so no car. But an __ox cart? __Isn't that overkill?"

"The people in this region are desperately poor, Napoleon. Most are farmers or shepherds, barely eking out a living. If we are to pass ourselves off as Bulgarian nationals, we must travel as the locals do."

He sighed. "At least tell me there's a decent hotel in Gorna Vasilitska."

"No hotel, but the Bulgarians are a friendly people. Someone there will have a room to let."

"With heat?"

"Not likely. There may be running water, if we are very lucky."

Napoleon glanced down at his mud-caked trousers. "You mean there might __not __be?"

"We are in the mountains of Bulgaria, Napoleon. Conditions are primitive. We will be lucky if the room has a bed."

"Now you tell me."

Illya steered the cart around a fallen tree limb. The ox snorted at the effort, nostrils spewing forth huge clouds of vapor. The chickens squawked in alarm. Feathers flew everywhere.

"Hey, go easy, will you?! The natives are getting restless." Napoleon spat out a mouthful of feathers.

Illya smirked. "Reminds me of that time in Baton Rouge, when the circuit court judge tried to have you tarred and feathered for sleeping with his daughter..."

Napoleon glared at the back of Illya's head. "Laugh it up, partner. Next time, I'll drive the cart and you can babysit the chickens."

The wind picked up, whipping eerily through the surrounding pine trees. The ox lowed, unsettled. "__Drebni__," Illya soothed. "__Drebni__." He glanced at the sky, which had darkened to an ugly slate color. "Snow is coming." As if summoned, the first fat flakes began to fall.

"Springtime in Bulgaria." Napoleon tugged his coat around him. "Could this mission get any better?"

They crossed a frozen streambed; the sound of the ice cracking beneath them seemed unnaturally loud. "Why do you suppose THRUSH has set up housekeeping here in these mountains?" Illya wondered as the oxcart bumped along. "It is a wretchedly poor region, remote and sparsely populated. There aren't even enough people for THRUSH to subjugate."

Napoleon shrugged. "Maybe it's the isolation that appeals to them – not much chance of being discovered out here on the fringe. In any case, Waverly thinks they're here, and up to no good."

"But __why __are they here? What would be their purpose?"

"Dunno. I guess we'll find out when we run into them." He laid his head back against his travel bag. "Wake me when we get there."

The cart rattled on.

*/*/*/

They reached the tiny village of Gorna Vasilitska as night fell. Napoleon stared at the sad cluster of whitewashed huts with their broken windowpanes and dilapidated, lichen-covered roofs. "You weren't kidding when you said these people were poor."

"Tragically so. The Soviet-mandated collective farms have been successful in other Eastern Block countries – even in other parts of Bulgaria – but they are failing here. If something isn't done, Gorna Vasilitska will be a ghost town before too long."

"Poor climate?"

"Hardly. Winters here are harsh, but relatively short. We are not far from the Black Sea, and the warm salt air provides a favorable growing season. The soil is rich and fertile. And yet the farms – ah, I see we have been noticed."

Villagers were beginning to appear in doorways. Women in homespun dirndls, their long hair bundled under thick wool scarves. Men in traditional garb – knickerbockers and vests – their sweat-stained shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows in the manner of gypsies. __Babushki __in long black skirts, smacking toothless gums as they stared silently at the visitors.

Napoleon leaned forward. "I thought you said the Bulgarians were a friendly people."

"They are. I do not understand it." Illya set the cart's brake. "Let me do the talking," he murmured quietly. "Your accent is atrocious."

"Be careful."

"I am always careful."

He slid to the ground, boots sinking into the soft new snow. "__Dob'r vyetcher__. I am Nicola Tarnovsky, and this –" He indicated Napoleon. "– is my brother Valentin. We are traveling to Dolna Banza, to our uncle's wedding. We would like to rent a room for the night. And purchase something to eat."

A man – the leader of the village, Illya supposed – strode forward, his brawny torso rippling with muscle. The man planted himself in Illya's path, folded his arms across his chest and scowled. It was a posture clearly meant to intimidate. "There are no rooms here."

"Then perhaps a meal. We have been traveling since sunup, and –"

"No food, either."

"I see." Illya noted the other villagers watching their conversation with open suspicion, and something else. Fear. "You won't mind if I ask some of your friends – ?"

"Brothers, eh? Funny, you don't look like brothers. In fact, you don't look like you're related at all."

"People often say that." He tried to go around the big man, but the brute shifted position, blocking his path. Everything about his demeanor suggested violence.

Napoleon's hand strayed toward his Walther.

The man peered into the ox cart. "I don't see any presents. You go to your uncle's wedding without presents?"

"Not that it is any of your business, but the chickens are for Uncle Aleksandr." He sighed. "Tell me – are the people of Gorna Vasilitska always this unwelcoming?"

"We don't like city folk. You should go now."

"It's dark. The road is treacherous at night. Would you have us drive off a cliff?"

The big man shrugged. "It's nothing to me."

"We are tired and hungry. We seek a meal and a bed, nothing more."

"Embrace a snake and it will bite you. So my father taught me."

"A gentle word opens an iron gate," Illya replied. "Thus,__my __father taught__me__."

"A lie has short legs, and every villain has a trick –"

"– but a friend may always be welcomed in times of trouble."

Several tense seconds passed. At last, the man extended his hand. "I am Stoyan Bachev. Forgive my rudeness, but we are a cautious people, and these are dark days."

"Dark days?"

Stoyan dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "Nothing to concern you. Come, I take you to Bilyana Dragomirova's place. She rents rooms, and you can get something to eat."

Illya gestured for Napoleon to gather up their travel bags, and together they followed Stoyan across the snow-covered street..

"What was that all stuff about 'snakes' and 'gates'?" the senior agent whispered. "For a minute there, I thought the two of you were going to come to blows."

"A test. We passed."

They followed Stoyan through a narrow door, and found themselves in a large, dimly lit tavern. Battered tables and benches sat empty beside a blazing fire. An old yellow dog lay sleeping on the hearth rug. He opened a single, curious eye before returning to his dreams.

A woman stood at the small stove, stirring a pot of soup. She glanced up at their arrival. Napoleon thought she looked sad, and far older than her years.

"Bilyana," Stoyan boomed, "we have guests!"

The woman wiped her hands on her apron. "Hush, Stoyan," she hissed. "Don't roar so loud. __Ala __will hear you."

"These good people need a room for the night, and some of your hot __bob chorba__."

Muttering under her breath, she withdrew a key from the ceramic bowl on the counter. "Give them attic room. Is the cleanest. I call when supper is ready." She turned back to the pot on the stove and proceeded to ignore them.

"Don't mind Bilyana," Stoyan confided. "She's like that with everyone." But Napoleon thought he looked worried.

*/*/*/

The attic room was small and narrow – a closet, really – with a ceiling so sloped that the two men had to duck in places just to pass one another. A twin bed sagged in one corner, pieces of yellow straw poking through the bedsheets. The single wool blanket at the foot of the bed was musty and threadbare. Frigid air whistled through the cracks in the plaster.

"At least there are no chickens." Napoleon kicked off his boots, and wiggled his frozen toes gratefully. "This is one creepy village,__tovarisch__. A mob carrying pitchforks and torches would be friendlier than those people out there."

"Something is wrong, Napoleon. Those villagers are terrified."

"They're afraid of something, that's for sure. And the Bilyana's face – like all the joy had been sucked out of it." He lay back, pillowing his head on his arms.

Illya glanced out at the deserted street, scouring the shadows with sharp eyes. "Stoyan spoke of 'dark days.' I am curious to know what he meant by the remark."

"THRUSH?"

"Perhaps. Also, Mrs. Dragomirova mentioned __Ala__."

"Yeah, I noticed the reference to Allah, too. I didn't realize this was a Muslim village."

"It's not. An __Ala __is an ancient demon god. In Bulgarian mythology, she is portrayed as a voracious whirlwind, devourer of small children and destroyer of crops. Interesting, don't you think, considering the failure of the collective farms in this area?"

Napoleon laughed. "Don't tell me you believe demons have caused the poor harvest in Gorna Vasilitska?"

"Of course not. However, THRUSH may be using the local superstition as a way to consolidate its power in the region."

"I see your point." He sat up with a grunt. "Well, one thing's for certain – we won't learn anything more sitting in this room. Let's get cleaned up. Supper will be served soon, and I'll think better on a full stomach."

*/*/*/

There was a bathroom at the end of the hall, and the two men took turns using the ice-cold shower with it's feeble trickle of water. Afterward, they scrubbed the mud out of their travel garments, and hung them over the shower bar to dry. Freshly attired, they made their way back downstairs.

The tavern had filled in their absence – it seemed as though everyone in the village had turned out to see them. The air smelled of smoke and roasted meat, and Illya's stomach rumbled with hunger.

"You sit." Bilyana ushered them to a table near the fire, where an older man slouched, nursing his drink. "Is crowded tonight, so you share table with Doctor Dzulev."

They took seats on the hard bench, and sat back to observe the room. The village men sat together at a long table by the window, drinking and whispering amongst themselves. Napoleon wondered why the doctor had chosen to sit apart from them, and if it had been Dzulev's choice, or theirs.

"I don't see Stoyan anywhere," he whispered. "Where do you suppose he's gotten off to?"

Illya shrugged. "Off harassing other travelers, no doubt."

The women in the room were scattered at various tables, and seemed intent upon some sort of craft project involving wooden bats and cowbells. A young woman smiled as she rocked her baby. Napoleon thought she resembled the Madonna in a painting he'd seen once. A few old women clustered together in the corner, sewing, their gnarled hands moving back and forth in a strange, solemn choreography. A pile of animal skins lay at their feet.

Dr. Dzulev still had not spoken. The man's face seemed wreathed in sorrow, like a burned-out star that has collapsed in on itself. Illya wondered what had caused his pain. "Good evening."

Dzulev raised bloodshot eyes. "Is it? Matter of opinion, I s'ppose."

"Mrs. Dragomirova said you are a physician?"

"Veterinarian."

"Oh. I assumed –"

"Village doctor died six years ago." Dzulev shrugged. "There was no one else to replace him."

Before Illya could inquire further, Bilyana returned bearing plates of salad and steaming mugs of plum wine. "__Rakiya," __she announced. "Stoyan makes in his still. Very popular. Fifty proof. Drink up."

The salad was delicious, the __rakiya __spicy and extremely potent. The men ate with relish. No sooner had they finished than their empty plates were replaced by bowls of hot, minty soup, warm, crusty bread and fresh mugs of __rakiya__. The hungry men devoured everything, but the doctor managed only a few tentative spoonfuls before pushing his bowl away. He turned his face toward the fire.

Illya slid down the bench to sit beside him. "How long have you been a veterinarian, Dr. Dzulev?"

"Long enough." He turned away, shoulders hunched protectively against the intrusion.

Illya pretended not to notice. "It must be interesting work. What sorts of cases do you get?"

"The usual."

"Mostly common viruses and breached births, I imagine?"

"Mmm."

It was like trying to draw blood from a turnip. "Do you enjoy your work, Doctor?"

Dzulev snorted, and for the first time, Illya sensed the anger simmering beneath the surface of the man. "Enjoy? Not the word I'd use."

"Really? Why do it then, if you do not enjoy it?"

The doctor lifted his weary head, resigned to the conversation. "Someone has to. Animals get sick. People get sick. They need doctors. Especially now, with all the terrible –" He stopped abruptly.

Illya seized upon the hesitation. "Terrible –?"

Dzulev drained his mug with shaking hands. He looked as though he wanted to be sick.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances.

"You were saying, Doctor?"

The transformation was startling. "__Po diavolite!__" Dzulev roared. "Why are you bothering me with all these foolish questions?! What business is it of yours, anyway?!"

Eyes turned in their direction. Conversation ground to a halt.

"Forgive me," Illya replied quietly. "I meant no offense."

"What gives you the right to come in here – you and that silent brother of yours – poking your nose into our affairs?!"

"Again, I apologize. I was merely being curious."

"Curiosity's not always a good thing, young man. You might not like the answers you get." The doctor stared at his empty mug as though he couldn't remember finishing it.

The man wrestled with demons, that much was clear.

Illya waited.

"What do you think of our village?" Dzulev said at last.

He hesitated. "People – do not seem happy here. What has happened to cause so much sorrow?"

The doctor slammed the mug against the table top. "Are all city folk as blind as you? Only a fool could fail to see the cause of our unhappiness."

"Then I am a fool. Tell me where to look."

He laughed, but it came out almost as a sob. "Use your eyes, Tarnovsky! What's __missing__?"

"Missing?" Illya glanced at Napoleon. The senior agent looked equally confused.

"What __don't __you see? Think!"

He pictured the village as they had first encountered it. The fading light. The disrepair, the utter absence of hope. The people, men and women full of suspicion. The sad, unnatural silence.

__Silence.__

"There are no children," Illya said slowly. "No babies." The hackles rose on the back of his neck. "Where are the children," he asked softly.

Dzulev's chin quivered; his eyes filled with tears. "There aren't any children. Not anymore. There haven't been any live births in Gorna Vasilitska in nearly three years."

The words fell into the silence. In the corner of the room, an old __babushka__ began to cry.

"No babies born here in the past three years? None?"

The doctor shook his head.

It was unheard of. Family was sacrosanct in Bulgarian culture. For a couple to be childless was considered punishment for grave sins. What had happened here? "You said no babies, but surely there must be a few older children? Where are they?"

"They got sick last year – no one knows why. And then they died."

"All of them?!" Illya and Napoleon exchanged shocked glances.

The doctor's expression left no doubt as to the meaning of his words.

Bilyana laid a hand on Dzulev's arm. "Hush, Georgi. Is not your fault."

"How can it not be my fault?! Our village used to be filled with children. Laughing, playing, wonderful children. Now, they're gone, our women can't have more, and I can't begin to guess why." His shoulders shook with grief. Illya thought that he had never met a sadder man.

His eyes fell upon the young woman Napoleon had noticed earlier. "What about her?"

Dzulev looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. "Nadya."

The woman looked up.

"These men would like to see your baby."

"Of course." She stood, smiling.

The man beside her shot to his feet. "No! Leave her out of it!"

The doctor raised his hands, a gesture of supplication. "It will be alright, Tosho." He opened his arms. "Come, Nadya. Show them your child."

Nadya came forward, opening the swaddling blankets for them to see. "Her name is Davina," she said proudly. "It means 'precious.' Beautiful, isn't she? Have you ever seen such blue eyes?"

Napoleon and Illya stared down at the wooden doll, nestled so lovingly in the woman's arms. It's painted blue eyes stared back at them, unblinking. "No," Illya replied softly. "I never have."

"Tosho and I want a big family, but we waited so long to have Davina. Still, we're young. There's time. There's time..."

Tosho slipped a tender arm around Nadya's shoulder. "Let's go home, dear," he said. "It's cold out. We don't want the baby to catch a chill."

"Oh, you're right," she smiled. "I should have thought of that. We don't want little Davina to catch a chill. No, no, certainly not. Children are such delicate creatures." She gave a small curtsy. "It was a pleasure to meet you gentlemen."

"And you." Napoleon and Illya watched as Tosho led his wife away.

"Now you understand," the doctor muttered bitterly. "__Ala __has cursed us. We are being punished."

Illya frowned. "Cursed? Punished? Those are odd words for a man of science."

"Our children are dead. Our crops have failed. There will be no new lambs again this Spring. Even the bees have died. Who but a demon could wreak such havoc upon us?"

"THRUSH," Napoleon sighed. "Waverly was right, Illya. They're here."

Dzulev's head snapped up. "You speak? And in English!"

All eyes turned toward the senior agent. An angry muttering spread through the room.

"Illya is Russian name," Bilyana hissed. "Are you spies? KGB? DS?"

Napoleon sighed. "I guess it's time we explained a few things, __tovarisch__. You'd better do it. My language skills aren't up to the task."

"Agreed." Illya took a deep breath. "My name is Illya Kuryakin. This is my friend, Napoleon Solo. We are agents, working for an international peacekeeping organization called UNCLE. "

"So," Bilyana scowled, "not brothers."

"No. UNCLE believes that a group of very bad people – THRUSH – are doing evil things here in these mountains. We think they may be responsible for the trouble in your village."

Bilyana's eyes narrowed. "You think they kill our babies?"

"We think so, yes."

"Not __Ala__?"

"Not __Ala__. We want to catch these bad people. We want to stop them so they cannot hurt you, or anyone else, ever again."

Dzulev began to see. "You think these – THRUSH – used a virus, or a drug of some kind on our village?"

"A strong possibility." Illya steepled his hands before him. "Tell me, when did the trouble in Gorna Vasilitska start?"

The doctor thought back. "Tsveta's child was the first. A boy, stillborn. A little over three years ago, it was."

"No, no," one of the farmers interrupted. "You're forgetting about the sheep. Remember all those dead lambs. That was four years ago this April."

"Bogdan's right," another chimed in, "and my orchard started to fail the year before that."

"So, five years." Illya processed the information. "It sounds as though THRUSH was testing different versions of the virus."

"You're saying that the same thing that killed the children also affected our crops and flocks?" The doctor shook his head. "No virus crosses taxonomic Kingdoms. It's impossible."

"Not for THRUSH. They have resources you cannot imagine."

Beside him, Bilyana shuddered. "Why our village? Why they kill __our__ babies?"

"Gorna Vasilitska is isolated, away from prying eyes. No one would notice a few children dying."

"We notice! Bastards!" She spit on the floor.

"There's already been so much death." Dzulev shook his head uneasily. "What happens when they're done testing?"

"There is no limit to what THRUSH can do with a weapon like this," Illya replied. "Use it on crops and livestock, and they can control the world's food supply. Use it on people, and they can destroy armies, decimate populations, demand tribute."

"Hold the world for ransom." The doctor sat up a bit straighter as the implications took hold. "We have to stop them."

Around the room, people nodded. "We will help."

"Many of us were in the Resistance during the War," the farmer named Bogdan declared boldly. "We know how to fight for what is ours."

"We can't bring our children back," Dzulev said, "but maybe we can prevent more innocent people from dying."

Napoleon leaned forward. "__Tovarisch__, ask them if any strangers moved to the area around that time."

Illya translated, and listened carefully to a chorus of replies. "Just one. A man named Valko Hristov bought one of the larger farms north of town, after the previous owner died unexpectedly. He runs the farm with his brothers – all twelve of them."

"Died how?"

"The man fell into the farm's juice press and was crushed to death."

"Convenient."

"There is more. Hristov's farm supplies the plums for Stoyan's __rakiya, __and he supplies the entire village."

Napoleon's eyes narrowed. "The wine we drank tonight?"

Illya nodded. "__Rakiya __is a traditional Bulgarian beverage. Everyone drinks it. You heard Bilyana – 'very popular.' It is served at every meal, in every home. Children drink a non-alcoholic version of __rakiya __from the time they are weaned, and pregnant women drink extra amounts of it, believing it makes for a healthy baby."

"And the villagers have been drinking the stuff for years." He pushed his half-empty mug away. "Do you think Stoyan's in on it?"

"Difficult to say. We should be careful around him until we know for certain."

"Stoyan Bachev would never betray us," Bilyana insisted. "His family live here for generations. He is one of us." Around the room a dozen heads nodded.

"I hope you are right," Illya responded diplomatically

"Okay,__tovarisch__, the first thing we need is a way to sneak up on Valko Hristo's farmhouse without raising suspicion. Any suggestions?"

Illya looked around the tavern. "I have an idea that may work." He turned to the women. "I see cowbells and bearskins on your tables. Am I correct in assuming those are costumes for the __Kukeri?"__

Several women nodded.

"__Kukeri?__" Napoleon asked. "What's that?"

"An ancient pagan fertility festival, an offshoot of the cult of Dionysus, known as Bacchus to the Romans. Once a year, all over Bulgaria, villagers gather to celebrate the return of Spring to the world. They visit homes and farms throughout the area, where they dance, drink copious amounts of __rakiya__, and banish any evil spirits that may have taken up residence during the winter months."

"Interesting. But how does that help us sneak up on the farm unnoticed? Our faces are instantly recognizable to any THRUSH with half a brain."

"Which eliminates at least half of them." Illya smiled. "Trust me. If this works, Hristov and his goons will never see us coming."

*/*/*/

Napoleon stared down at his body, now clothed in a thick robe of bear fur. On his face he wore a demon mask crowned with a set of horns as long as elephant tusks, their tips honed to sharp points. A string of heavy brass bells hung from a belt around his waist, and an enormous wooden phallus dangled lewdly between his thighs. The torch he carried hissed and flickered in the cold night air.

"At least we won't freeze," he murmured, burrowing into the warm softness of the garment. "The giant phallus does take a bit of getting used to, though."

Illya smiled at his friend's discomfiture. "It is a fertility cult, after all." He turned to the men, all similarly garbed. "Does everyone understand the plan?"

Dzulev nodded. "We split up into groups of three, and distract Hristov and his brothers with our singing and dancing while you two slip away and destroy the laboratory."

"Good. If we are not back in fifteen minutes, leave without us."

"What if you get into trouble –?"

"Fifteen minutes, no more. Understood?"

Dzulev nodded, albeit reluctantly.

The procession set off across the snowy countryside, singing a selection of bawdy songs involving sexual escapades, with lyrics that left little to the imagination. The cowbells at their waist clanged noisily with every step.

"A lusty people, these Bulgarians," Napoleon remarked as the procession wended its way through the dark pine forest.

They had gone about a mile when suddenly the trees parted, revealing a hilltop clearing. The group halted. The moon was rising, pale and full, and a pantheon of stars dotted the sky now that the snow had ended.

"Perfect," Illya said. "Hristov and his men will be sure to see us coming."

"See us? With the noise these bells make, they'll have heard us coming for miles."

"And they will assume we are exactly what we appear to be – drunken neighbors celebrating __Kukeri. __In order to maintain their cover as simple Bulgarian villagers, they will have to let us in to 'banish the evil spirits from their home.'"

The procession ambled down the hill, singing and laughing as they stumbled along. They took swigs from their flasks of well water, pretending to be drunk on__rakiya. __When they reached the farmhouse gate at the base of the hill, they were stopped by a phalanx of armed guards.

"Greetings, neighbor!" Dzulev bellowed, and hiccupped. "We-ee've come t' bl...t' bl...blessesess yer house! 'S __Kukeri__, y'know!"

"This is private property. Turn around. Now."

"B...but...'s __Kukeri!__"

"I don't care if it's the Second Coming. Turn around before –"

Valko Hristov appeared at the farmhouse door. "Now, now, boys, no need to be rude. Let them in! They're here to bless our home."

"Bless our –?" By the expressions on the guards' faces, it was clearly an alien concept.

"Do as I say, boys. We don't want to cause a fuss, do we? "

The guards parted reluctantly, and the procession stumbled past. Illya took note of their weapons – THRUSH issue rapid-fire assault rifles, infrared sights. "Not goin' t' sh..shoot us, are ya?" He giggled, and belched loudly. "Big guns y' got there."

"Wolves," one of the guards replied shortly, "preying on our sheep."

"Ohhhh..."

The group surged into the main house, bells clanging, and quickly moved off in various directions. They sang and danced with joyous abandon, darting this way and that as the guards raced to keep up with them. No one noticed Illya and Napoleon slipping away through a side door.

They stashed their costumes behind the woodpile. "Much better," Napoleon remarked as he withdrew his Walther from the robe's concealed pouch. "Those damned bells were giving me a headache."

They scanned the area – a barn, a stable, a shed for farm equipment, a mill, and the building housing the juice press. "The laboratory will likely be in one of these outbuildings," Illya whispered. "It would be far too dangerous to keep flammable chemicals in the main house."

"But which one? We've got less than fifteen minutes to find the lab and set the charges. There isn't enough time to check all the outbuildings."

"The guard mentioned wolves preying on their livestock," Illya said slowly. "Have you seen any livestock since we got here?"

"Now that you mention it, no. The place feels empty, like a stage set." He sniffed the air. "No smell of manure, either."

They headed for the barn. As they drew near, they heard a strange, hollow buzzing coming from inside the building. The barn walls vibrated with the force of it.

"Machine?"

Illya shook his head. "I do not think so. The vibrations are irregular, and the pitch varies." He tried to look in one of the windows, but the panes had been painted over. "They are hiding something in there; that much is certain."

"There's a fairly sophisticated lock on the door, too," Napoleon said. He went to work on the combination, and after several false tries, the lock gave. They cracked open the barn door and slipped inside. He checked his watch. "Twelve minutes."

"Napoleon –" Illya's voice was tight with tension. "Get out of here. Now."

He turned. "Illya –?"

In the center of the floor, a massive black cloud swirled. Its shape seemed to undulate, as though it fluctuated between dimensions. One moment it resembled a tornado; the next, a hideous hag or a plague of locusts. It pulsed with electricity, stank of malevolence. Amid the swirling detritus, faces could be seen – dozens, hundreds of faces, some of them small children – their milky eyes staring, sightless, their mottled skin crawling with insects as they shrieked in soundless terror.

"What the hell __is __that?!" Napoleon hissed.

Illya was as white as a sheet. When he answered, his voice trembled. "I – I think it is – an __Ala__."

"An __Ala__? You're telling me that thing is a __demon__?!"

"Do you have a better name for it?"

A huge, gaping maw opened in the center of the thing, and a horrid, keening cry spewed forth. The sound was deafening; it shook the rafters of the building, and chilled the two men to the bone. Bits of razor-sharp hail flew out from its depths, pelting the men.

"Let's get out of here." They backed away.

"Ah," said a voice behind them. "I see you've discovered our little secret."

Valko Hristov, Stoyan Botev and a dozen THRUSH guards stood in their way, every one of them armed to the teeth. The guards moved in swiftly, seizing their weapons and binding their feet and hands. They threw the ends of the rope over the barn's central support beam, and pulled, until Illya and Napoleon were suspended helplessly in midair.

"Comfortable?"

"Swell, thanks for asking. About that – thing –"

"The __Ala? __ Beautiful, isn't she? We found her starving to death in a cave in the mountains. We rescued her, and brought her here to Gorna Vasilitska."

"How altruistic of you," Illya muttered.

"Altruistic? Not at all, Mr. Kuryakin! It was a purely mercenary decision, I assure you. The __Ala __is the essence of pure, unrepentant evil – greedy, cruel, power-hungry – in short, everything THRUSH stands for. We couldn't be better suited for one another."

Illya snorted. "You make a lovely couple."

Napoleon's wrists were becoming raw as he struggled to free himself. "Mind telling me how you found us so quickly?" he asked, stalling for time.

Hristov held up their discarded robes. "You should have hidden these more thoroughly. Sloppy planning, Mr. Solo. I expected better from you."

"Maybe next time..."

Hristov's smile was chilling. "Oh, I'm afraid there won't be a 'next time' for you two. The __Ala __has a voracious appetite, you see – she's really quite a glutton – and I have promised her a fresh supply of tasty morsels in return for her continued assistance."

Napoleon's stomach churned at the thought. He redoubled his efforts. "Her assistance?"

"With the infertility drug, of course. It's her venom that we mix into Stoyan's __rakiya__."

"So it __was __in the __rakiya__. We suspected as much."

"Did you?"

Napoleon's eyes sought out Stoyan. "THRUSH must have offered you an awful lot of money to betray your friends."

"An awful lot," Stoyan agreed pleasantly. "Enough to make me a very rich man."

Illya glared. "Enough to assuage your guilt for the murder of dozens of children?"

Stoyan shrugged.

"You will never get to spend that money. Hristov will kill you once he's done with you. And if he does not kill you, I will."

"And you say __we __are the bloodthirsty ones," Hristov laughed. "Ah, well –" He turned to the __Ala__, stretching out his arms and bowing low. "These two are yours, Great Queen. Take them. Devour them."

The __Ala __seemed to expand outward at his invitation, filling the entire space from floor to ceiling. Her maw opened, expelling huge gusts of rotten, fetid wind. She screamed, a hideous shrieking sound, and the guards backed away, white-faced, trembling in fear. "Sir, shouldn't we –?"

Hristov laughed. "Yes, alright. We can go." The guards stumbled over one another in their rush to leave. The barn door slammed shut behind them.

The instant the door closed, Illya kicked his body into motion. Back and forth he swung suspended, each arc taking him a bit higher, until at last he was able to reach the barn's central support beam. He pulled himself onto the beam and knelt, tearing at his bonds. His wrists bled.

The __Ala __advanced upon her prey.

Napoleon continued to struggle against the ropes binding him, but it was no use. They were too tight. He could smell the __Ala's __charnal breath, felt her sufurous malevolence closing in. "Illya, hurry –"

Without warning, the rope slackened, and he fell to the floor, groaning at the pain slicing into his hip. He turned the fall into a roll that carried him away from the creature's stinking maw. An instant later, Illya appeared at his side, wielding a farmer's scythe. He sliced through the ropes binding Napoleon's wrists and ankles. "Run." The two men tumbled out the door of the barn as the __Ala__ screeched in fury.

They ran right into the arms of the__Kukeri__.

Still garbed in their traditional costumes, the villagers stood watch over the unconscious bodies of Valko Hristov and a dozen THRUSH guards. The purloined THRUSH rifles they held looked incongruous, almost to the point of comedy, against their primitive villains had been expertly trussed with the belts from the __Kukeri __robes. A pile of cowbells lay unattended in the snow.

"I know you told us to go," the doctor said, "but we couldn't leave you. This is our battle."

"Much appreciated," Napoleon acknowledged, "but right now we have a bigger problem. __Much __bigger. There's an __Ala __inside that barn that we need to deal with. You should move your people back before –"

The barn door exploded into splinters, and the __Ala __emerged, screaming. As they watched, she swelled in size, as big as a house now, and shrieking with rage and hunger. Her maw opened, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.

Napoleon pushed the villagers in the direction of the forest. "Get your people out of here now!" he ordered. "Illya, any idea how to defeat that thing? I'm open to suggestions –!"

But Illya wasn't listening. _"___Bozhe moy!"__

Out of the midnight sky the dragon came, soaring past the stars on powerful, leathery wings, a phantasm out of ancient myth. The beast was enormous – the size of a small plane – with blood-red scales that sparkled like precious jewels wherever the moonlight touched them. Puffs of black smoke streamed from its nostrils; its chest heaved with great, audible gasps as it drew in oxygen, stoking the molten fire within itself. The dragon passed directly above them, the force of its wings buffeting them like a hurricane, the sound of its voice, an earthquake.

"Christ. Is that –?"

"__Da."__

The dragon flew directly at the __Ala; __its speed was it flew,it inhaled a final, endless breath that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the world. Then, with a sound like a freight train, the creature exhaled – a blast of electric blue fire that set the nearby trees ablaze, and enveloped the screaming __Ala __in a pulsating ball of blue flame. She shriveled wherever the fire pierced her, screeching as she fell apart, melted away, turned to gray ash. In seconds, she was gone.

The dragon sang then, a magnificent trumpet cry of victory. The sound of its pleasure echoed across the surrounding mountains. From somewhere in the distance, there came a faint answering cry. As the men watched in awe, the dragon spread his wings, rose above the treetops and disappeared like a ghost into the star-strewn sky.

Silence fell.

"Christ," Napoleon said again. "A dragon." He rubbed at the gooseflesh on his arms.

Illya shook his head in wonder. "Impossible."

"We saw it with our own eyes."

"I know -"

"Perhaps there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in either of our philosophies, __tovarisch__."

Illya smiled. "Perhaps." He moved a few paces away from the unconscious THRUSH guards, and assembled his communicator pen. "Open Channel D, overseas relay, Waverly, scramble."

The connection was instantaneous. "About time the two of you reported in," Waverly's tinny voice grumbled. "I was about to send a recovery team out to collect your mangled bodies."

Illya grinned. "Fortunately, that won't be necessary, sir."

"Glad to hear it. Damned expensive operation, recovery. We're not made of money, you know."

"Yes, sir. We do have a dozen THRUSH ready for pickup. Their operation here has been permanently shut down. Also, we will need a team of doctors and counselors to help the people of Gorna Vasilitska move on from the tragedy THRUSH has perpetrated here."

"Tragedy?"

"The details will be in our report, sir. Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, Mr. Solo and I could use a lift back to civilization."

"A lift?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Solo is – well, let's just say he is not a fan of the ox cart we came in on."

"Indeed?" Waverly sighed. "Very well, I'll see what I can do –"

Doctor Dzulev found Napoleon staring up at the night sky. "You seem a trifle befuddled by recent events, Mr. Solo," the doctor remarked gently.

"I suppose I am. I deal with THRUSH's insanity every day, but it's not often that a perfectly rational man has an encounter with a demon __and __a dragon. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it."

"Perhaps it's not your mind you need to ask. The modern world sees our old ways as mere superstitions – naive creations of a primitive mind – but we who believe, we know the truth of things." He smiled. "The world is filled with magic, for those who have eyes to see it. What you saw tonight was merely a taste of a different reality."

"I might just have to start believing that."

"Napoleon...over here..."

Illya stood at the door to the equipment shed, gazing down at the body of Stoyan Bachev. It lay sprawled where it had fallen, face up and bleeding out into the snow. His eyes stared sightlessly up at the stars. His throat had been cut.

"The villagers appear to have have exercised their own form of rough justice," Illya observed quietly.

Napoleon shrugged. "'Embrace a snake and it will bite you.' I'd say he got what he deserved."

Illya's jaw set. "Not by half."

Shivering now in the cold night air, they redonned their bearskin robes and joined the __Kukeri __to wait for the UNCLE transport vehicles to arrive. The hours passed, and the moon set. The stars arced across the sky, fading with the approaching dawn. Once, far off in the distant mountains, Napoleon thought he heard the dragon call. He smiled.

*/*/*/


End file.
